Ed Lacy - The Big Fix

Ruth stopped to buy a bottle of soda. Entering their apartment, with her story about being at the printers carefully worked out in her mind, Ruth was surprised that Walt wasn't there. It was a few minutes after nine thirty and she stared at the cigarette butts in the ash tray, made herself a light drink, wondered, uneasily, where Walt was. Now she was sure somebody had been with him when she had phoned, and felt a flash of hysterics as she examined the butts for lipstick traces.

The late evening paper was on top of the television set and Ruth had a hunch Walt had just left the house. But that wasn't like him. He never went out alone. She glanced at the paper, thinking a little about Burgie, not at all sure what he meant to her. After soaking in a hot tub, she finished the paper in bed. By ten-thirty she was really worried about Walt. As Ruth was debating whether to call the squad room, he might have gone out on an emergency assignment, the phone rang. Walt said, “Glad you're home. I'll be right over. Oh, I'm bringing somebody with me.”

He hung up before she could ask what it was all about There was an intenseness in his voice which annoyed her. She carefully brushed her long black hair and, as an afterthought put on her best girdle and bra, to make certain she looked slim under her robe. “Now wouldn't this be a living bitch if Walt is bringing another woman over for a showdown!” Ruth told herself. “But that's impossible, I know Walt. Still... he might have been seeing some floozie all these months. Perhaps I misunderstood his coolness in bed. Well I can always phone Burgie. I'll scream if Walt tries to leave me!”

Twenty minutes later Walt unlocked the door. There was a little, boyish-looking old man with him. As Walt said, “This is my wife, Ruth. Ruth, meet Tommy Cork,” she realized the man wasn't old. It was merely his face was out of shape and at the moment full of worry.

Shaking her hand, Tommy muttered, “Pleased to meetcha, Mrs. Steiner, I...eh...” Opening his coat Walt told her, “Ruth, we're in a kind of jam. We have a favor to ask. Something very important we want you to do. Right now. A woman's life may depend upon it.”

TOMMY

Leaving the steak house, Tommy headed west. At the corner he glanced at a window clock. It was a few minutes after eight and the window happened to be part of a bar. Knowing May didn't come on until around ten o'clock, he decided to have a shot. He needed one.

Over his third belt he told himself, “Man, when you get a nutty fight fan, you got the tops in being dumb. Arno takes out a policy on me, as a favor, and Al starts yelling murder. If I hadn't put the lid on him hard just now, Al would have ruined the works for me. For crying out loud, the way Al reasons, if Arno decided to buy me a tux it would mean he was thinking of marrying me. 'Cancel the policy and see what Arno does.' What would they expect Mr. Brewer, or anybody else, to do but throw me out? I got it made and no creep is going to spoil my last chance....Now why am I calling Alvin a creep? He's been plenty decent to me, give me what breaks he can. That cop, that Walt, he was something.

“If I packed his weight, I bet I'd be working at least once a month. And with my savvy—most heavies don't know how to move off their flat feet. Sure can't figure Walt for not turning pro, getting in a couple big paydays. Being an amateur was the good life. Really kid stuff but I sure felt I had the world by the hairs then. Seventy-two bouts—I damn near had more watches than the Swiss navy; if I hadn't hocked them with the promoters. And those bootleg fights, hop into some beat-up car and spend a week fighting in Troy, Albany, Toronto, come back with a pocket full of bucks. I don't get it, even the medal chasers can't get a fight today. TV killed off the amateurs, too. And I figured TV would be a shot in the arm for... Aw, what am I stewing about? I'm set. I'll make some good fights now, I'm feeling strong, ready to go. Always knew my Irish luck wouldn't let me down. That Al.

“Good thing I didn't blow my cap trying to calm him down. Got to keep in good with these TV guys. They're as important now as the mob boys. Well, guess I'll stop with this shot, really have to keep in shape. I'll go see May now— only get tanked if I hang around here. Another thing I like about Arno—he don't mind if I take a belt now and then. Yeah, I'll see May now, show her I'm on my way, all togged out. She hasn't seen me look this sharp in years. Even if she isn't working yet, I'll find out where she's rooming and.... Hey, that was Walt looking in here! I hope that dick isn't tailing me.”

Going to the door, Tommy watched Walt Steiner walk on down the street. He decided the detective was merely passing by. He straightened his tae and overcoat, inspecting himself in the bar mirror, quite pleased with what he saw, then started for the diner.

Mac, the partner on duty, was the baker—although despite the sign behind the counter, all the cakes and bread weren't “baked on the premises.” It depended on how drunk Mac was. Tommy walked in and sat on a counter stool. Over a cup of coffee he asked Bertha, “What time does May Cork come on?”

“You mean what day will she be back, if she comes back,” Bertha said.

“What? Is she unwell?”

Bertha giggled. “Unwell? Yeah, guess you might call her unwell at that. All the gals I ever seen get beaten up weren't exactly well.”

“May's been beaten up?” Tommy said, jumping to his feet. “What is this?”

Bertha examined his rough face. “Who you, mister?”

“Her husband. Where's May?”

“Who knows? In hiding, I guess. I'd be. I only hope she gets all this settled before the month's over so I can go to California and...”

“What's going on here?” Tommy asked loudly. “Where is May?”

Mac came over, asked Bertha, “Any trouble?”

“This guy is asking for May. I told him...”

“You run your flabby mouth too much.” Mac turned to Tommy. “What's all this to you?”

“Where's my wife? What's happened to May?”

“I don't know where she is. I don't know nothing, see? I ain't sticking my nose into nothing. You say you're her husband but...”

“I am!” Tommy snapped. “And stop stalling me.”

Mac shrugged. “Okay, maybe you are her old man. And then maybe you're a strong arm punk sent around to work her over,” he said, his voice mild. Mac was a large fat man, with an alcoholic's indifference to fear. He asked Bertha, “You know May's husband?”

“Never saw him. But she told me he was a pug. This one sure fits the part What a puss! I seen the husband once on TV.”

“Then you know who I am!” Tommy shouted.

“I was pretty bug-eyed then. Besides, this guy had so many gloves hitting his face, I couldn't see much. Anyway, I don't even know May wants to see you. I hear the last time she saw her ever-loving, she had to hit him. I always say a gal...”

Tommy slapped the counter. “The both of you cut the chatter. Just tell me where she is!”

“What you making all this noise for?” Mac asked.

“I'm asking where my wife is and you'd damn well better tell me before I knock your ears off!”

“That kind of talk don't impress me. I got nothing more to say.” Mac started toward the cash register, walking casually, where he kept an unloaded automatic.

“I'll impress your fat face with a...!”

Bertha rested all of her bosom on the counter as she said, “Come on, cut the rough stuff and listen to me, May's husband. Mac's only a good-natured rummy. He don't know a damn thing. None of us do. That's a fact.”

Yanking out his wallet, Tommy held up his plastic-covered boxing license. “Read it! Tommy Cork. That's my picture there. Now you believe me?”

Bertha glanced at the license, also measured the thickness of the wallet. “For sure, you were never strong on looks, even when this snap was taken. What Mac was trying to say is, So what if you are her husband? I mean, not only don't we know anything, but maybe you're working for them too. May was all wrong to start this stuff in here, and we don't want no trouble.”